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Poem	All night the knot in the shoelace waits for its liberation, and the match on the table packs its head with anticipation of light. The faucet sweats out a bead of water, which gathers strength for the free fall, while the lettuce in the refrigerator succumbs to its brown killer. And in the novel I put down before I fall asleep, the paneled walls of a room are condemned to stand and wait for tomorrow, when I'll get to the page where the prisoner finds the secret door and steps into air and the scent of lilacs.
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